


Faire boum boum crac crac

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Explicit Language, Fluff and Humor, French!Zayn Malik, M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5321162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Harry suddenly gets the sense that Zayn’s grasp of English is even more limited than what his friend is making it out to be, but he doesn’t care. Not really. Harry can’t remember how to say anything useful in French, but perhaps it’s actually beneficial that Zayn can’t understand Harry. Maybe Zayn won’t get embarrassed by Harry if they can’t understand each other.</p><p>So instead of saying anything further, Harry cuffs his hand against his neck and beams at Zayn."</p><p>Harry's in his seventh year when the Triwizard Tournament returns to Hogwarts. Normally Harry wouldn't care about weird magical tournaments, but Zayn Malik, a student from Beauxbatons, very quickly captures his attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faire boum boum crac crac

**Author's Note:**

  * For [god0nlyknows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/god0nlyknows/gifts).



> Thank you to my betas and especially to my bff for helping me with all of the French. Any remaining errors are totally my own.
> 
> Half of Zayn's dialogue is in French, so it might be helpful to have Google Translate open if you don't understand. Or you can just pretend you're like Harry, because he has no clue what Zayn's saying, either.

When Harry boards the Hogwarts Express, it’s with grand ambitions of having a fairly normal final year at Hogwarts. 

Harry’s not a Quidditch star, he’s not Head Boy, and he’s not on track to graduate at the top of his class. However, Harry did intern in Brazil during the summer and is studying to become a Curse Breaker after graduation. He’s single for the first time in ages, he’s just had a growth spurt, and he got his first magical tattoo in his mate’s flat in Salvador. He’s young and attractive and he’s excited about what his life is going to be like after Hogwarts. His plans are both exhilarating and decidedly ordinary.

So Harry boards the Hogwarts Express and sits in the same compartment he’d nabbed back in his first year. Harry’s sharing the compartment with Liam Payne, who is Hogwarts’ resident Quidditch star, and Niall Horan, who was named Head Boy, and all of Harry’s hopes of having a normal seventh year at Hogwarts fly straight out of their open window.

“This is top-secret information — at least for the next few hours — but they’re bringing back the Triwizard Tournament,” Niall whispers. Or at least he attempts to. Niall is a notoriously poor whisperer, boisterous and lively lad that he is. Most of his whispers end up being at about normal volume. 

“The Triwizard Tournament?” Harry repeats around a mouthful of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans. Harry’s Muggleborn, part of a decent-sized cohort sorted into Slytherin following the War, and Harry’s last six years at Hogwarts were characterized by Harry bumping into everything in the common room and asking inane questions about magical history. It’s been a running joke that Harry would’ve done tremendously well in Hufflepuff if it weren’t for his masked ambitious streak. “The fuck is that?”

“Magical tournament where people always die,” Liam explains. Liam’s a Gryffindor but he’s never given much thought to the House divisions. Niall’s in Slytherin, same as Harry, but he insists it’s because he asked the Sorting Hat to place him there since he likes the colors. Liam and Niall have known each other ever since they were both in nappies. They’re both full-bloods, not that it really means anything, but Liam never seemed to mind that he spends all of his free time with two Slytherins.

“That’s not true,” Niall interjects. “People don’t _always_ die.”

“Why would Headmistress McGonagall have a tourney where people die?” Harry asks. “That seems counterproductive to Hogwarts’ mission as like — you know. A school. Where you teach alive children.”

“Alive children,” Niall laughs. “People don’t always die, though. Really.”

“They did in the last one,” Liam answers darkly. “Cedric Diggory died and You-Know-Who came back and then there was war for three years and rebuilding for ages afterward. It was a shit time, really.”

“The Headmistress said something about the Triwizard Tournament representing an opportunity to infuse greater collaboration amongst the magical community,” Niall recites, probably verbatim. “Basically the Triwzard Tournament brings in a lot of money and fit people from the other magical schools, so the Board approved it at their last meeting. I don’t think McGonagall had it in her to fight them this time, ‘specially because the Board is made up of a lot of alums from the War who were actually here for the last Triwizard Tournament and have mostly fond memories of it. What can you do?”

“Hopefully not die,” Harry supplies. “But hang on. What was that about fit people?”

Niall grins. “Students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will be staying at Hogwarts — the two other major magical schools in Europe. So the best of the best students will be joining us for a year. The smartest and the fittest.”

“I don’t think it’s necessarily true about the fittest — ” Liam protests.

“You should hope so,” Niall replies. “Merlin knows you need a boyfriend or girlfriend. And we all know you’ll enter the competition, too.”

Liam goes scarlet and Harry grins, poking him in the side. “Would you enter the competition, Liam?” Harry asks. “And you, Niall?”

Niall shrugs. “Can do. It’d look great on job applications — Triwizard Champion, eh? Know you’re thinking about it, too, Haz.”

Harry rolls his eyes and shoves Niall playfully. “Not really. Would have to research what this whole thing’s about and see how it’d interfere with my revising. But I’m all about — what’s it — greater collaboration amongst the magical community.”

“Yeah, greater collaboration between firm arse and your cock, more like,” Niall mutters. He doesn’t even seem surprised when both Harry and Liam throw candy at his face.

 

Headmistress McGonagall does indeed announce that the Triwizard Tournament is returning to Hogwarts that night after the Sorting Ceremony. There’s lots of cheering and general misbehaving until McGonagall glares at all of them and explains the rules. Not only must interested students be of the Wizarding Age of Majority, but they must also receive an endorsement from a member of the faculty and be in decent class standing. This leads to jeering and booing, but Harry understands the rational. The Triwizard Champions are putting their lives in danger and will also be distracted from their NEWT-level coursework. The Headmistress doesn’t want the Champion to be someone who might die due to sheer stupidity or otherwise flunk out. 

 

Students from the other magical schools arrive within a fortnight. It’s a terribly big spectacle and should be ridiculously embarrassing but Harry loves every moment of it. The students from Durmstrang arrive in this ancient, rickety old boat that pops up from the Great Lake and the Beauxbatons lot drop in via flying horse-drawn carriages. Then each school does its own stupid little introduction — some of the Durmstrang students light a whole lot of things on fire and dance with them, and Beauxbatons does a graceful water ballet thing. Hogwarts, being the underfunded hellhole that it is, just sings their boring old school song, and then everyone goes back inside for dinner.

Harry normally likes to sit at the Hufflepuff table because he’s a meddling interfering shit, but tonight all of the House divisions are actually being enforced for some stupid reason, so Harry makes his way to the end of the Slytherin table with Niall. Harry sits and idly scopes out the new arrivals, picking at his bowl of eintopf while Niall chatters in his ear.

And that’s when Harry sees him. The most enticing boy that Harry has ever laid eyes on in his life.

The boy is almost supernaturally pretty for one thing. With honeyed skin and thick, black hair. He’s got sparkling amber-colored eyes that Harry can actually make out from across the Great Hall and a grin that lights up the entire room. He’s got the most perfect countenance Harry has ever seen.

Harry feels like he’s been kicked in the ribs. He is so overwhelmed that he can hardly breathe — can hardly think. All Harry knows is that this boy is stunning. Harry wants him so suddenly and so fiercely he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. A strong part of him wants to point at the boy and scream unintelligibly in his face until the boy gets with the program and fucks Harry senseless on top of the Gryffindor table while Liam politely tells everyone to avert their eyes.

“Niall,” Harry hisses, grabbing his mate’s arm. “Niall, do you see that boy? The tan one in the Beauxbatons robes? Pretty boy with the swoopy hair?”

Niall looks up and his eyes scan across the room before landing on the great love of Harry’s life. “Yeah, I see him.”

“Is he part Veela or something?” Harry whispers.

“No, I think he’s just an unnaturally good-looking wizard,” Niall answers before pulling his arm out of Harry’s grasp. “Grape?”

Harry nods and reaches over, grabbing a stem of grapes from Niall’s plate and and popping one into his mouth. “Are you sure?” Harry insists from around a mouthful of fruit. “Like — just look at him, Niall. He’s bloody gorgeous. And Veela are supposed to be super fit, too, right? I feel like you told me that.”

“He is a nice-looking lad,” Niall agrees. “But male Veela are super rare and he’s not causing mass hysteria and sending anyone into a lust-inspired frenzy.” Niall stops, giving Harry a quick once over, before amending, “He’s not sending anyone _else_ into a lust-inspired frenzy.”

“Shut it,” Harry says, but there’s no heat behind the words. Instead, he sighs and looks over at the boy again, feeling his insides go soft and gooey. There are plenty of good-looking people at Hogwarts and it’s not like Harry’s ever been hurting for a night of companionship if that’s what he so desires, but there’s something in the composition of this boy’s face that makes Harry feel like he’s been tossed headfirst into the Great Lake. “I think I’m in love, Nialler.”

Niall snorts but doesn’t say anything in reply. He just pats Harry on the shoulder and leaves him to his swooning. 

 

Harry loves dating. He loves wooing people — learning what makes them smile that special grin, learning what makes their hands shake and their knees go weak. Harry loves taking people out at Hogsmeade, loves holding hands and opening doors and grinning at someone over glasses of cider. Harry loves making people love him. He’s not always so great at the next part — the loving them back and keeping them for more than a night or two bit — but the chase is fun. Harry doesn’t always necessarily want more.

But Harry does legitimately think he might be in love with the pretty hazel-eyed boy from Beauxbatons, so Harry spends the next week or so plotting how he will get the boy’s attention. It’s kind of hard for once — Harry’s busy with all of his coursework, and he’s also an editor for the school paper and Co-Chair of the Arithmancy Club for some stupid reason — but when Harry’s not writing essays and calling meetings he doesn’t even want to attend and editing his mates’ articles into something legible, Harry’s staring at the Ravenclaw table where most of the Beauxbatons students have decided to congregate and trying to will the pretty boy into falling in love with him. Niall says that it’s a little creepy — the staring intensely at a stranger thing — but Harry doesn’t know what else to do. He’s never wanted someone quite so profoundly before.

Either way, Harry’s plan isn’t really working. He’s seen pretty boy around in the hallways and out by the Quidditch Pitch — always standing next to this slight brunet boy with bright blue eyes and an infectious grin — and pretty boy has smiled at Harry a few times, but he’s never said “Hello” and Harry’s too terrified to try and strike up a conversation. Harry is sure that pretty boy’s smiles mean something, but Harry can’t tell whether the boy thinks Harry is cute or if he’s just friendly and wants Harry to stop staring at him during dinner. Harry’s leaning toward the latter. Pretty boy seems like a companionable lad — gorgeous and nice, always with a small crowd around him — which means he’s entirely out of Harry’s league, because Harry has a habit for bedding arseholes without any ambition. 

Harry’s never felt so out of his depth before. It makes him feel really daft. And Harry always feels a little stupid because he’s an embarrassing human being who trips over everything and says the wrong thing when he’s nervous or not thinking straight, but this is different. Harry can normally charm the knickers off of anyone, but pretty boy is just so fucking gorgeous that Harry can’t even find it in himself to resort to that.

 

Which is probably why fate intervenes and instead Harry ends up accidentally barreling into pretty boy one Saturday morning while trying to chase after his Arithmancy homework. He was studying by the Lake by himself when his parchment went flying out of his hand after a particularly strong gust of wind. Harry gains a hold of the parchment and somehow manages not to land directly on top of pretty boy like in some cliched Muggle romance, but it’s a very near thing. Pretty boy’s brunet friend chortles like a hyena, even going so far as to point and laugh, interspersing his chuckles with some shit in French Harry can’t understand.

“Sorry!” Harry yelps, the offending piece of parchment clutched in his palm. “Sorry! Sorry. Sorry.”

“C’est bon,” pretty boy says, standing and using his wand to siphon dirt off his robes. His hair’s all in his face and it should look stupid but it just makes him look extra dashing, like a rock star or something. “Il n'y a pas de mal.”

Harry shoves his parchment into his robes and wrings his hands for lack of anything better to do with them. This is the first time he’s heard the pretty boy talk and Harry’s already mucking it all up by literally running into the lad. Harry’s sure that his clumsiness will certainly spell the end of any potential romance between the two of them. 

This is the worst day of his life.

“I really am sorry. Well, my name’s not sorry. It’s Harry. Harry Styles. What’s your name?”

The beautiful boy finally looks up and when he does, his eyes go wide, almost like he’s panicking, although Harry can’t begin to figure out why. At his side, the boy’s friend attempts to stifle a fresh wave of laughter behind his fist. “Ferme ta gueule,” the beautiful boy hisses to his companion. “Aidez-Moi!”

“Does he not speak English?” Harry asks, directing his attention to the other boy. He’s super pretty too, with his teasing blue eyes and perfectly styled hair. Harry’s seen him hanging around the Quidditch Pitch with Liam a few times, too, but Harry’s never talked to him before. Together, pretty boy and the brunet form perhaps the most gorgeous pair of friends Harry has ever seen. Harry feels ridiculously out of his depth just looking at them. “Merlin. Do _you_ speak English?”

“Of course I speak English,” the friend squawks. “We can’t both be utterly useless.”

Harry exhales, relieved. “Nice.”

“Zayn understands English well enough,” the friend continues. “He just doesn’t feel comfortable responding quite yet. Especially not in front of fit Englishmen. He’s very shy, you see.”

“Zayn?”

“Zayn Malik,” the beautiful boy interjects, shouldering his friend out of the way. “Je m’appelle Zayn. Ne pas écouter ce qu'il dit.”

“Oh!” Harry blinks, desperately attempting to dredge up every bit of French that’s still lingering in the recesses of his brain. Harry did study French in primary, after all. “Well, you might’ve already caught this. But er. Mon uh. Mon nom est Harry. Shit. Is that right?”

“Harry?” Zayn repeats. “Je aime ce nom. Comme Harry Potter.”

Harry understands that Zayn’s tone is conversational, friendly even, but he also has no clue why this gorgeous boy is talking about Harry Potter. “Er. What did you say? Sure? Si? No wait. Oh, no. That’s not right.”

Zayn tilts his head and smiles, almost like Harry is sweet or endearing or something. Harry knows he’s not endearing — he’s bloody embarrassing. Everyone knows that. It’s probably going to be the inscription on his tombstone: “Here lies that embarrassing twat Harry Styles. He died doing something stupid.” 

Harry suddenly gets the sense that Zayn’s grasp of English is even more limited than what his friend is making it out to be, but he doesn’t care. Not really. Zayn is so bloody fit Harry almost forgets how to breathe around him. And Zayn’s even more gorgeous when he’s smiling and directing the full intensity of that grin at Harry. Harry’s so fucked and he can’t remember how to say anything useful in French, but perhaps it’s actually beneficial that Zayn can’t understand Harry. Maybe Zayn won’t get embarrassed by Harry if they can’t understand each other. 

So instead of saying anything further, Harry cuffs his hand against his neck and beams at Zayn.

“This is hilarious,” the friend guffaws. “Like a dog and a deer trying to chat. I am going to regale my children with tales from this day.”

Harry frowns at Zayn’s friend. Zayn similarly glowers, but it’s without much heat. Zayn’s glare does kind of make him look like a put-out beagle. That would make Harry the deer, though, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “Rude.”

“Not rude,” Zayn’s friend says. “Opposite of rude. I’m Louis, by the way.”

“Charmed,” Harry replies. “Where are you and Zayn headed?”

Louis gestures behind him. “Quidditch Pitch. There’s a broom race between some of the students — ”

“Invitez Harry à venir,” Zayn mutters.

“ — and you’re more than welcome to come if you want,” Louis continues. “Or maybe you and Zayn want to take a nice, romantic walk around the Pitch instead?”

Harry purses his lips and tries not to screech because that sounds absolutely lovely and Harry wants to take a romantic walk with Zayn straight to the altar. Instead, he puts his hands to his face and tries to hide the redness that’s blossoming across his cheeks. 

“Is it really warm?” Harry says. “I feel like it’s really warm right now.”

“It’s like 13º Celsius,” Louis answers drily. “But yes, sure. It is very warm for Scotland.”

Zayn clears his throat and it’s perhaps the most adorable thing Harry has ever seen in his life. “Stop tease ‘arry,” Zayn admonishes.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees even as he smiles like a loon. “Stop tease me.”

“Well, I’m late for the races,” Louis replies, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m headed to the Pitch and I get the distinct feeling that neither of you are tagging along. See you later? And, Zayn, utilisez un préservatif.”

Zayn raises two fingers on one hand and slaps his bicep with the other. Louis cackles and lifts his broom over his shoulder, turning and making his way toward the Pitch.

Zayn then moves toward Harry, raising his eyebrow expectantly. Harry’s stomach does a somersault and he almost screams in Zayn’s face once more. He’s suddenly very nervous. Zayn’s gorgeous and looking at Harry like he’s interesting — probably because Zayn can’t speak English very well — and Harry’s French isn’t as good as years of compulsory primary education would hope for.

Harry suddenly understands why Louis thought this interaction was so hilarious.

“Er,” Harry says.

Zayn takes pity on Harry, laying a soothing hand on Harry’s elbow. “We walk, yes?”

Harry nods so energetically his hair flops into his face. “Sure. Oui. Let’s go for a walk.”

And so Zayn and Harry head out along the grounds. They don’t really talk — instead they point at things and do a lot of really awkward gesticulation, occasionally writing things out with their wands and actually managing to get more confused. Harry wishes he spent more time paying attention during his French lessons in primary.

Somehow they still end up with their hands interlinked. It’s the most chaste experience Harry’s ever had with someone he desperately wants to fuck, but Harry still feels as breathless as he would’ve if they’d spent the whole afternoon snogging. 

 

The next morning, Harry wakes up feeling on top of the world. He jogs around the Lake and then heads to the Great Hall after a quick shower, taking his usual seat with Niall and Liam at the Hufflepuff table. Liam’s skimming over the sports section of the _Daily Prophet_ , and Niall’s busy trying to drink an entire pitcher of pumpkin juice by himself.

“He’s _beautiful_ ,” Harry sighs, pulling a croissant out of a basket of pastries sitting on the table. Liam looks up, rolls his eyes, and returns to reading about Quidditch. “Like, there’s always been a small part of me that still remained skeptical about this whole magic thing — ”

“Skeptical?” Niall yelps. “ _Still_ , Harry? After seven bloody years?”

“ — but now I know for sure that it has to be real. Like this isn’t all a mass hallucination. I won’t wake up in my room to the realization that this was some elaborate dream. I am alive and this boy — Zayn Malik — he really is that beautiful,” Harry continues, resting his hand on his fist and sighing. “And sweet. We went for a walk around the Lake yesterday and _he held my hand_. Seriously lads. How can someone be so bloody amazing? I nearly sent fireworks out of my wand. So his beauty and sweetness must be magic. There’s no other explanation. It’s all real.”

“Beautiful and still fairly unattainable,” Liam adds, folding his paper over and looking at Harry. “He doesn’t speak English, right?”

Harry frowns. “How did you know that?”

“Was talking to one of the Riach brothers about him after Potions class on Friday,” Liam shrugs. “Everyone knows you’re obsessed with him — considering you’re the most obvious person on the planet and all — so Ant and I started chatting about that. Danny got assigned as Zayn’s partner because he was the only other person who could understand him without a Translation Charm.”

Harry groans. “Too bad I dropped Potions.”

“What? Why? So you can moon over him all day?”

“No,” Harry interjects. Sometimes Liam can be really thick. “So that I can _talk_ to him.”

Niall snorts. “But you can’t speak French.”

“Yes, I can!”

“Say something in French then,” Liam suggests.

“Uh,” Harry starts. He may or may not sweat a little. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

“Say something in French that you didn’t hear in a Muggle pop song,” Niall amends. “And don’t phrase it as a question.”

Harry blinks. “Er — ”

Niall shovels a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. “See, Liam? Fucking useless.”

“I am not useless,” Harry protests. “I can speak plenty of French. You’ve just made me nervous.”

“You’re not useless,” Liam agrees. “I’m sure you can remember French after a little practice.” His tone is soft and placating and he runs a hand through Harry’s curls. He is probably Harry’s best friend. Liam is nice and understanding and Niall is an evil jerk face, the likes of which gives their honorable house a bad name. 

“You’re being silly,” Niall continues. “Either you need to learn enough French to get into his pants or you have to master one of those Translations Charms. Bumbling through interactions is only going to be cute for so long.”

Harry shrugs and pops a tear of pastry into his mouth. “Both of those sound like a lot of work, though,” Harry says. “I’ve already gotten to the hand-holding stage just by smiling and running into him. Maybe I don’t need to practice my French?”

“That sounds lazy as fuck,” Niall says. “I thought you said you were in love with him, but okay. Do whatever you want. See how much of a relationship you can build without any basic fucking communication.”

Harry pouts and pours himself a cup of pumpkin juice. He glances up and gives himself a few minutes to gaze at the Ravenclaw table. Zayn’s not up for breakfast yet, but maybe if Harry wills it hard enough, Zayn will appear, grab himself a pastry, and smile at Harry with yesterday’s sunshine still lingering in his eyes.

 

Harry didn’t bother putting his name into the Goblet of Fire because he has a healthy respect for death and would prefer not to end his life at the tender age of seventeen, but he knows Liam’s entered and Niall has, too. It would be exciting to be best friends with a Triwizard Champion, although Harry heard something about some tasks involving the kidnapping of loved ones in order to motivate and inspire greatness. Harry’s less excited about getting roped into something like that.

The big ceremony to select the Champions happens something like three weeks after the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students arrive. Everyone’s shepherded into the Great Hall and the Goblet of Fire is sat at the front of the room. The thing is old, its presence a looming force that makes Harry feel a little uneasy. Harry thinks it’s an ugly cup, too, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. A lot of wizard things are proper ugly, honestly.

Headmistress McGonagall gives a long speech that Harry only half pays attention to, and then when she’s done the entire Hall goes eerily, expectantly quiet. The Goblet starts making a lot of noise and then bursts out a bright, violet flame. Headmistress McGonagall raises her hand and a slip of singed paper drops into her fingers. Harry somehow manages to resist the childish urge to ooh and ahh while Headmistress McGonagall pulls on her reading glasses. The Headmistress purses her lips and peers at the handwriting, no doubt mentally critiquing the offending Champion’s scrawl.

“The Durmstrang Champion is Aiden Grimshaw!” Headmistress McGonagall calls. The end of the Slytherin table erupts with noise. Harry turns his head and watches a tall, thin brunet stand and toss his hair from out of his eyes. The boy — Aiden, apparently — makes his way to the front of the Hall where he shakes all of the Headmasters hands and is shepherded into another room.

The Goblet of Fire roars and sputters into life again. Headmistress McGonagall extends her hand and once more a slip of paper drops into her fingers. The Headmistress glances upward, the corner of her mouth quirking into a smile, and then she says, “The Hogwarts Champion is Liam Payne.”

Harry glances across the room and sees Liam sitting next to the fit Gryffindor Chaser Sophia Smith. Liam’s eyes go wide and then the entire Great Hall erupts with noise. Harry slams himself into Niall’s side and Niall screams unintelligibly, waving his glass around and doing an Irish jig. It takes almost a full minute — plus creative sparklers from the Headmistress — before Liam is able to disentangle himself from the crowd that forms around him and make his way up to the front of the Hall. Headmistress McGonagall smiles warmly at Liam, clapping him on the back, and Harry can only imagine the full puppy dog grin that’s on his friend’s face. Liam turns around once, waving briefly at everyone, and then he's gone, too, disappeared to wherever they led Aiden.

The Goblet of Fire makes itself known for one final time. The Goblet rumbles and roars and spits out the final name. Harry looks over at the Ravenclaw table, his eyes latching onto Zayn and his friend, Louis. Harry hasn’t had the chance to hang out with Zayn, not since that day they walked around the Lake. Harry’s been stupid busy with all of his classes and Zayn doesn’t speak English so Harry’s not entirely sure how he would get a hold of him anyway. An owl didn’t seem like the best option. Harry probably should’ve sent him flowers. And composed a sonnet in Latin. And asked Niall if he could use the Head Boy accommodations for some decidedly extracurricular activities. 

Zayn is staring straight ahead, eyes wide and vacant, but Louis has his chin hooked over Zayn’s shoulder, whispering rapidly and urgently into his ear. It looks intimate. Harry feels a spasm of jealousy, wondering if maybe he’d gotten everything wrong and missed his chance, and makes himself look away.

“The Beauxbatons Champion is Zayn Malik!”

The Ravenclaw table stands in unison and Harry very nearly falls off his own bench. Harry can tell that Zayn’s eyes are wide and disbelieving, but Louis is thumping his back and urging Zayn to stand. Zayn does so, rising and swaggering his way to the front of the room. He looks like a bloody high fashion model. Zayn is so hot and Harry feels warm all over and very nearly makes a mess of his pants.

“Merlin,” Harry murmurs. “The love of my life’s a fucking Triwizard Champion.”

“He must be a badass wizard,” Niall acknowledges. Niall practically has to shout in order to make himself heard over all of the cheering. “You’ve got good taste.” Then Niall sighs, swigging from his glass. “Too bad all of the Triwizard Champions are dudes. I was looking forward to going after one.” Niall shrugs and leers at Harry. “Guess I’ll have to live vicariously through you.”

Harry watches as Zayn leaves the Great Hall. Harry thinks of Zayn and Louis sitting close together at the Ravenclaw table. He thinks of how he hasn’t been able to hang out with Zayn, even though Zayn’s hands are so very warm and he’s able to draw really funny things with his wand.

But then Harry also thinks of how Louis said Zayn was shy and how Louis spends all of the time he isn’t with Zayn dashing around after Liam on the Quidditch Pitch. Louis wouldn’t have encouraged Zayn to go on a romantic walk around the Lake with Harry if they were dating. 

Harry thinks of how he’s always been really good at wooing, and he wonders if such charm would even work on Zayn. Harry isn’t even sure he would want to use the same moves on Zayn as he uses on everyone else. Harry certainly knows he wants Zayn for more than one night. Harry wants Zayn for as long as Zayn will have him. 

Harry thinks and he thinks. He thinks so hard he can feel the edge of a headache creep along the side of his skull. He wonders if he could talk Niall into making him a potion to address that. 

“I’ll have to see what I can do to land Zayn, then,” Harry finally sighs. 

 

The First Task is scheduled for the first week of November and the entire castle is buzzing with anticipation. Well, the entire castle minus Harry, who has been spending his limited amount of free time staring wistfully across the grounds or moping about the library. Zayn’s very popular now that he’s a Triwizard Champion. Every time Harry catches a glance of Zayn he’s got a massive crowd about him. It’s both annoying and disheartening. Harry hardly knows Zayn and he certainly doesn’t have any stake on him, no matter the fact they held hands and grinned at each other like they both carved the moon, but it still feels like Harry’s lost him somehow. 

“You know, the more that I think about it, the more convinced I am that you shouldn’t let a little thing like not understanding each other stop you,” Liam muses one day at dinner. Harry had been staring at the back of Zayn’s head for ten minutes. It’s a minor miracle that Zayn hadn’t turned around and caught Harry yet, but loads of people stare at Zayn these days. Maybe he’s used to it.

“A little thing,” Niall repeats. “A little thing like fundamentally not understanding each other.”

“It is a little thing!” Liam insists. “Plenty of people have been able to get together despite language barriers. Zayn clearly likes Hazza. He always smiles when Harry’s around and we all know Harry thinks he’s fit. You don’t need much else, not to get started. So why not just go for it, see what happens? Zayn’s a bloody Triwizard Champion — he’s not going to be unavailable for much longer, not with the way people have been pursuing him.”

Harry exchanges a glance with Niall. Liam’s not usually the most observant when it comes to matters of love, but he does have moments of tremendous insight. And, terrifyingly enough, Harry thinks Liam’s right. Harry would love to marry Zayn in five years or so, preferably in Brittany along the coast, but he knows he has to build up to that. Take that first step and wine and dine Zayn like he deserves. And then maybe somewhere along the line Harry will learn French and Zayn will learn English and they will be able to hold basic conversations about the weather like any other normal, boring couple.

“You’re right, Li,” Harry says. “I should just go for it. He’s only going to be here for a few months. Gotta make them count, yeah?”

Liam grins and takes a triumphant bite of chicken. “Definitely.”

Harry turns to Niall, who is slurping his pumpkin juice noisily. Niall finishes his drink and wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand.

“It’s not the worst idea the two of you have ever had,” Niall admits. “I guess this means Operation Seduce Zayn Malik is now officially a go.”

 

Operation Seduce Zayn Malik is a fairly simple mission. The first step is to do recon about Zayn — determine what he likes and what his aspirations in life are. Liam volunteers to help with this part. He and Zayn have had to go to weird Triwizard Champion meetings a few times, check-ins to make sure they aren’t on the verge of premature death or something, but Harry has suspicions that Liam is spending some of the time he should be using getting to know Zayn snogging Louis behind the broom shed, but Harry is being a good friend and decides Not To Ask.

Niall suggests and orchestrates the second step. He’s insistent that Harry should re-learn basic French and he arranges for the Riach brothers to give Harry lessons. The tutoring sessions are decidedly boring. The Riach brothers have a lot of inside jokes with each other and they’re both Ravenclaws and don’t have a lot of patience for people who don’t spend their free time contemplating the meaning of life and thinking up answers to stupid riddles. Not like Harry doesn’t spend a lot of his time meditating and wondering what his purpose on Earth is, but the Riach brothers take it to another level. They make Harry feel like a loser.

The third step is the simplest and the one that’s ultimately left up to Harry.

One Sunday afternoon Harry makes his way outside and scans the grounds for a familiar flash of dark hair. It’s approaching the end of October and it’s brisk and windy outside of the castle, the temperature falling lower and lower with each passing day. Harry pulls his scarf taut around his neck and also casts a quick warming charm while he searches the grounds, smiling to himself when he sees Zayn and Louis ambling toward the Quidditch Pitch. Louis has a broom tossed over his shoulders and they seem to be chatting animatedly, but thankfully Zayn is without the crowd of admirers that has recently started tailing him everywhere.

Harry tries to run after them but he trips on a badger hole or something and then decides to just speed-walk instead. He catches up to them before they loop around the posts and pats Zayn on the shoulder, biting his lip when Zayn turns and absolutely _beams_ at him.

“Hi, Zayn,” Harry says shyly.

“‘Ello ‘arry,” Zayn replies. “Ça va?”

Harry shrugs. “Ça va bien. Um. I was wondering if I could talk to you?”

“Are you going to talk to him in English?” Louis asks. “Because I need to get to the Pitch but I can translate if you want.”

“No, no, I want to try and talk to him in French,” Harry says. 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t want me to — ?”

“No, I’ve been practicing with the Riach brothers,” Harry insists. “It’s — I want to, yeah?”

“That’s sweet,” Louis replies. He doesn’t even sound sarcastic. “Yeah, fine then.” Then Louis bumps Zayn’s arm, grinning conspiratorially. “You get that, Z? Votre ami veut vous parler.”

Zayn’s skin doesn’t allow him to turn entirely scarlet, but it gets pretty close. “Harry est pas mon petit ami,” he says.

“Pas encore,” Louis rejoins, clasping Zayn on the shoulder.

Harry wishes he could understand their banter — make some sense out of the light in Louis’ eyes and the bashful optimism in Zayn’s — but they’re talking too fast and Harry’s French is still hovering slightly above “absolutely dreadful”.

Harry angles his body toward Zayn and tries not to chew through his bottom lip. It’s not like Harry’s never tried to talk to Zayn before but he still feels ridiculously nervous. He resolutely does not look at the words Ant scribbled on the palm of his hand — jotted down just in case, because Ant has absolutely no faith in him — and instead makes himself meet Zayn’s eyes. His beautiful, hopeful hazel eyes. 

“Er. Voulez-vous venir avec moi à Hogsmeade?” Harry asks.

“Hogsmeade?” Zayn repeats. “Bien sûr. Qu’allons nous faire?”

“It’s not a fair,” Harry explains. “It’s Hogsmeade.”

At Zayn’s side, Louis barely transforms a guffaw into a cough.

“Non,” Zayn protests. He pouts his lips and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone cuter in his life. “I know not fair,” Zayn says. His English is slow and hesitating and absolutely adorable. Harry wishes Muggle devices worked at Hogwarts so he could record it on his iPhone and play it back later on. Under the covers, on repeat, while he squeals to himself and recounts the day’s events in his moleskin. “I say — uh. I say what we do at Hogsmeade?”

Harry blushes. “Oh. Erm. We’ll go to the Three Broomsticks, probably. Buy candy? Walk around. Whatever you want to do.”

“Dites-lui que vous voulez le baiser,” Louis cackles. Zayn’s eyes widen and he punches Louis in the arm. Louis only laughs harder.

“That nice,” Zayn nods solemnly. “I like candy.”

“Et vous aimez son cul,” Louis murmurs.

Zayn’s blush somehow manages to intensify and he turns to Louis, smacking him solidly across the face. They start yelling at each other but Harry can only understand approximately one in every five words. They don’t seem to be capable of causing each other serious harm, though, so Harry feels like he can leave.

“Uh, I’ll see you next weekend?” Harry calls out over Zayn and Louis’ increasingly exuberant screams.

“Yes!” Zayn answers from where he’s knocked Louis onto the floor and wrestled him into a headlock. “À bientôt!”

 

Harry meets Zayn that next weekend for their Hogsmeade date. Although Harry’s not sure whether Zayn recognizes that it’s a date. Harry realizes he never specified because he didn’t know how to say it in French. But that’s okay. Harry meets Zayn outside of the Great Hall and Harry somehow manages not to lunge at Zayn and snog him for seventy years and instead they head toward Hogsmeade.

It’s another brisk autumn day. Harry’s in Muggle clothes because he thinks they’re inherently sexier and desperately wants to impress Zayn. Zayn is dressed in Muggle wares, too — artfully distressed denim, a leather jacket that he must’ve spelled warm, a gray sweater, and a burgundy beanie. He’s also got a backpack slung over his shoulder for some reason. He honestly looks like the human embodiment of sex. Harry continuously pretends that he’s colder than he actually is and presses himself into Zayn’s side, mumbling about how chilly it is. He grins to himself when Zayn finally gets the message and puts his arm around Harry’s waist, pulling Harry in close and huffing along his neck.

They end up at the Three Broomsticks. People clear up from a table when they see Zayn, Mr. Triwizard Champion, approaching, which is nice, so they end up tucked away in a corner of the pub. Harry grabs the first round of butterbeer and also orders some food for he and Zayn to split. They grin at each other and sip at their butterbeer for the first few minutes while they wait for their food to come out, but then Zayn clears his throat and reaches for Harry’s hand.

“I find you something,” Zayn says. “Your hair — it always in your face.” Zayn leans under the table and grabs the backpack he’d been carrying. Zayn reaches inside of the bag and pulls out several colorful bits of fabric, thrusting them at Harry. Upon closer inspection Harry realizes that they are scarves. Very expensive silk scarves from the Muggle designer Yves Saint Laurent. “I ask my sisters and they say this.”

“Merci,” Harry whispers, cradling the scarves against his chest. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever gotten anything so nice from someone he’s ever been interested in before. Certainly not anything that showed any degree of real consideration. It’s — it’s really, really nice.

Zayn can’t be real. He’s probably the most captivating person Harry’s ever met, and a Triwizard Champion which means he’s a secret badass, and yet he doesn’t mind that Harry can’t say anything useful in French. “This — they are very lovely, Zayn. Merci beaucoup.”

“It no problem,” Zayn replies. “They pretty — you pretty.” Zayn pauses, licking over his lips. “Can you wear them? To the Task, yes?”

Harry holds the scarves up in front of his face so Zayn won’t see his blush. Zayn laughs and pulls Harry’s hands back down, grinning so hard his eyes look like little half-moons.  

“Of course I’ll wear them,” Harry whispers. “I — Liam’s my mate but I’ll be cheering for you so loud I’ll probably lose my bloody voice.”

Zayn grins. “Génial.”

There’s a moment where Zayn and Harry don’t seem to need to talk anymore. There’s music playing in the Three Broomsticks but Harry can’t hear it, not over how hard his heart is pounding. Zayn’s eyes are as hazel as the butterbeer they have been drinking and his lips are pink like the candy hanging in the shop a few doors over. He’s gorgeous in an entirely effortless way, his beauty so crisp and refreshing that Harry doesn’t think he could ever tire of it. 

“I want to kiss you,” Harry admits. “Is that okay?”

“Il n'a pas vraiment d'importance ce que je dis parce que vous ne me comprenez pas de toute façon” Zayn says. “Vous devriez apprendre le français. Mais bien sûr, vous pouvez me baiser. Je veux toujours de vous embrasser. Et tout le reste. Pour aussi longtemps que vous le souhaitez.”

Harry blinks. It’s probably the most Zayn’s ever said to him in one go, and Harry only caught “le français” even though Zayn made a point of speaking slowly. Deliberately, even. 

“I didn’t understand a word you just said.” Harry confesses. “Hopefully you understood me? What I asked? But — Merlin. I don’t think I’m reading this wrong? You’re so fit, Zayn. And sweet and smart and talented. I — I want you more than anything. More than I have words to express, in English and certainly in French. So. Please stop me if this isn’t what I think it is.”

Harry licks his lips and Zayn traces the movement, his gaze rapt and hungry. Harry’s brain almost short-circuits but he pushes past it, leaning forward over the beer-sticky table. Zayn closes his eyes and meets Harry halfway.

 

Zayn and Harry meander through Hogsmeade hand-in-hand. Harry’s pushed his hair back with one of the scarves Zayn gave him, and Zayn’s idly licking on a lollipop Harry bought him at Honeydukes. Harry has to turn his eyes away from Zayn because the image is both cute and obscene — Zayn’s eyes all sly knowing as he darts his tongue, thick and pink, around the sweet. The village streets are mostly deserted, cold and biting as it is outdoors, but Zayn’s cast a charm to keep them both pleasantly warm and Harry’s mood is so buoyant that he doesn’t think he’d mind the cold anyway.

Harry ends up leading them on a path that loops around to the Shrieking Shack. Harry’s visited the old house more times than he can count but he’s never encountered anything particularly sinister. It’s just another lonely old house, same as the ones that sat along the riverbank back home in Cheshire. 

Zayn doesn’t seem scared either. He Transfigures two logs into blankets — which is much more impressive magic than anything Harry can manage — throwing one onto the ground and wrapping the other around Harry’s shoulders. Zayn settles beside Harry, who lifts the blanket so that Zayn can crawl underneath and snuggle into Harry’s side.

“Je veux vous montrer quelque chose,” Zayn whispers. Harry doesn’t understand what Zayn says but he shrugs and smiles anyway.

Zayn pulls out his wand again, his entire face screwing up with a look of determination. “ _Ore transferendum_ ,” Zayn mumbles. And then he turns to Harry.

“Did that work?” Zayn says. Or — well. That’s what Harry hears. The movement and shape of his mouth doesn’t really match the sound.

Harry blinks. “You cast an oral Translation Charm.”

Zayn sighs in relief. “I’ve been practicing. My English is terrible and I know you struggle with French. I thought this might be helpful. Just for right now?”

Harry surges forward and presses his lips to Zayn, a soft flutter of skin to skin contact. Harry doesn’t want to pull away to talk, so he doesn’t. He just murmurs against Zayn’s mouth, “You’re so lovely. So lovely and thoughtful and a Triwizard Champion. Wow. Oral Translation Charms are tricky work.”

Zayn shrugs as though he performs complex magic every day, which maybe he does. It’s not like Harry would know. They don’t share any classes together. “I wanted to talk to you so I tried to find out how to make it happen.”

“I’m very grateful,” Harry says. “Although I would’ve been content with trying to invent new sign language with you.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes,” Harry insists. “That and learning to read your body language.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow and smirks. “Well then we can spend all that time trying something else then, right?”

Harry feels his heart stop and figuratively fall out of his arse. But somehow he manages to recover and croak out, “Don’t want anyone to see — ”

Zayn reaches for his wand again and mutters two spells in quick succession. A concealment charm coupled with another spell that will compel people to suddenly remember an urgent task somewhere back in Hogsmeade. Harry’s not a completely useless wizard, but he has a hard time recalling spells and appropriate wand movements. Zayn doesn’t seem to have the same hangups. Harry wonders whether Zayn even needs to say the charms out loud at all or if he’s just doing it for Harry’s benefit. 

“You’re otherworldly,” Harry marvels. “I can’t believe I’ve snagged a date with the fittest Triwizard Champion.”

Zayn blushes and goes suddenly shy, picking at the sleeve of his jacket. “I don’t even know why I entered, “ Zayn admits. “Louis and I — we thought it would be a laugh. I didn’t expect to actually be chosen.” 

“There doesn’t have to be any big motivation behind it,” Harry reasons. “It’s fine if it was for a laugh. It’ll look good, you know? That you participated in such a big magical undertaking.” 

“I suppose,” Zayn hedges. “They’re writing about me in the papers back home, you know. In _Le monde magique_ and all of these weird teen rags. People think I’m a dark horse or an underdog just because I’m shy. I don’t want to give interviews yet — what is there to even say? But it bothers me that they’ve stuck me with this label. How can I be a dark horse already? I may have gone in as a laugh but I earned my spot same as the other boys. We’re all Champions and there’s been no Task yet.”

Harry blinks. Zayn occasionally looks dark and brooding whenever Harry catches a glance of him from the other side of the grounds or across the Great Hall, but Harry always assumed that’s just his face. Harry doesn’t think he would ever describe Zayn as a “dark horse.” To do so seems like lazy journalism. Harry’s always had the perception that Zayn was very silly, actually, but Harry very suddenly realizes that he made a lot of assumptions about Zayn without bothering to dig deeper. Zayn is really so much more than a pretty face and Harry should’ve thought about what it means that Zayn was chosen as a Triwizard Champion. Zayn was chosen as the most capable person from his entire bloody school and now he’s another piece of tabloid fodder for vulture journalists to seize on. 

So Zayn’s right. He’s not a dark horse. He’s just Zayn, a serious contender for the title and the prize money — same as Aiden. Same as Liam. 

“I believe in you,” Harry says. “Me, Louis — everyone that matters to you. People just make all sorts of stupid assumptions. But we know better. We see your heart and what you’re capable of.” Harry shrugs. He can’t really remember what he’d expected when he woke up this morning, but here he is, having a real-life, introspective conversation with Zayn. “You can win this thing if you want to. I’m sure you can.”

Zayn looks up at Harry through the fan of his eyelashes. His breath puffs out in little clouds but his warming charm from earlier is still going strong and Harry’s never felt so toasty and content cuddled up against Zayn’s side. “You think so?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry replies. “You’re talented, you know? You just turned bloody logs into blankets.”

Zayn hums and looks up. It’s starting to get late, the sunlight fading into autumn’s hazy burgundy and saffron. They’ll need to make their way back to the castle but Harry doesn’t want to. Harry wants to stay here with Zayn forever, confessing secrets and stealing all the kisses he can. 

“Do you want me to win?” Zayn asks. He’s looking down at the palms of his hand like they’re suddenly very fascinating. “Like. Is that why you’re still interested in me? Because you think I’ll win and you can say you hooked up with a Triwizard Champion? It’s fine if that’s all you want.”

“No,” Harry answers. “ _Merlin_ , Zayn, of course not. I thought you were fit and intriguing from the first moment I saw you in the Great Hall. I’m not only interested in you because of some silly competition.”

Zayn looks cautiously optimistic when he brings his eyes to meet Harry’s. “Are you sure?”

Harry nods. “Yes. Of course I’m sure.”

Zayn bites his bottom lip but he nods, the edges of his mouth twisting upward in the hint of a smile. “I — I just wanted to make sure, you know? I liked you, too. From the first moment I saw you, I mean. Louis would tease me — he called you my boyfriend.”

“How do you say that in French? ‘Boyfriend’?”

Zayn grabs his wand and writes the word in the air. _Petit ami._ Harry mouths the words, lets himself get familiar with how they sit on his tongue. They feel nice. 

“How do you say, ‘Zayn Malik is my boyfriend’?”

Zayn smirks but dutifully writes out the expression. The words are as gold as the sunset. _Zayn Malik est mon petit ami_.

“Can I say that to people?” Harry asks. “Can I say that you’re my boyfriend?”

Zayn lifts a shoulder and grins flirtatiously. “Only if I can say the same about you.”

“You most certainly can,” Harry says. And once more he leans in to give Zayn a kiss.

 

Eventually the date of the First Task rolls around and Harry is thankfully not abducted in order to fulfill Zayn or Liam’s grand hero mission, which is great. Harry doesn’t think he’d be a good damsel in distress. Instead, Harry wakes up that morning, takes a run, showers and eats, and makes his way to the Quidditch Pitch. He’s got one of Zayn’s scarves wrapped around his head. People keep telling Harry that it looks cool and it’s also doing a nice job of keeping his hair out of his face. 

Niall’s Head Boy privileges finally come in handy for once because he and a guest — in this case, Harry — are allowed special seats on the field where there are several rows set aside for faculty, the press, select students, and a handful of important dignitaries. 

There’s a Champions Tent on the pitch and Liam, Zayn, and Aiden emerge from it to a roar of applause and cheers. Aiden looks pale and worried, but from what Harry can tell he always looks like that. Liam’s got his determined face on, the same one he adopts whenever he’s going to take a particularly stressful exam. And Zayn — Zayn looks vaguely bored and over all of this spectacle, but that might just be because he’s French.

Headmistress McGonagall explains the rules of the First Task. It all sounds very complicated to Harry, who is too busy staring at Zayn, but he gathers that it involves wood nymphs, fire, quick wit, and daring. Headmistress McGonagall wishes the three boys luck and says that the Durmstrang Champion will go first. Then she stands back, ending her Sonorous charm.

The crowd cheers and Harry puts his fingers in his mouth to whistle. Zayn’s still surveying the crowd dispassionately, but the whistle draws his attention to Harry’s section. Harry catalogues the moment Zayn sees him and then makes out the patterned scarf in Harry’s hair. Zayn had been looking blasé before, but a grin erupts across his face and he mouths something at Harry. It doesn’t look like English but Harry’s sure he understands the gist either way — _I’m going to win this thing for you_.

When Zayn turns for his crack at the First Task, it’s with tenacity set in his face and Harry’s well-wishes urging him forward. He’s beautiful in the swell and crescendo of his magic, beautiful in his determination, self-assurance, and resolve. 

Harry still recognizes that he doesn’t entirely know Zayn — one conversation isn’t enough for all that — but Harry is eager to learn every tidbit, to uncover every new fact and listen to every new secret. For someone who never really sought out long-lasting companionship before, it should be scary, but instead all Harry can think about are all of the remaining tasks, the Yule Ball, and whether Harry can visit Zayn in Paris’ old wizarding district where Zayn lives with his parents and three sisters.

Harry watches Zayn and feels his heart flutter. Everything about their relationship feels unreal and storybook — minus the ridiculous language barrier, obviously. Being around Zayn feels like all of the things Harry secretly felt too jaded to hope for. It feels like crisp autumn days and holding hands and drinking butterbeer and snogging underneath a canopy of trees while wind whistles through the Shrieking Shack. It feels like familiarity and comfort, but like excitement and promise, too. It feels like a future and a past, potentially like a whole life.

And so Harry watches Zayn win the First Task and cheers so loudly he does almost lose his voice. Harry pushes his way through the crowd afterward and wraps his arms around Zayn’s neck, thanking Merlin that he didn’t get the normal final year at Hogwarts he’d been hoping for.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "Tri-Wizard tournament is happening, which means exchange students, including the incredibly gorgeous Beauxbatons student Zayn Malik. Harry is absolutely smitten, but Zayn's english isn't very good, and Harry's french is even worse (even though he'll deny it, excuse moi, Liam, he CLEARLY speaks french fluently). Queue language misunderstandings, mimes, lots of schmoop, and well, I like my fics to have some smut, but I'll be super happy with lots of fluff as well."


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